


Sunlit Gardens

by cafeanna



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: KuroKuratober, Light Angst, M/M, Morning After, cozy vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27040906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafeanna/pseuds/cafeanna
Summary: “Any reason for the furrow on your brow, my dear?”Kurapika scowls at him. “I’m here, aren’t I?”“Oh, yes,” Kuroro acquiesces, teeth peaking behind his lips as the corners tug back. His jaw is clean-shaven even now. “You are.”It sets something of his teeth on edge, coils up the fight in his limbs and pulls his muscles taut. It’s annoying, but not worth the fight. If Kurapika fought Kuroro every time he said something annoying, off-the-cuff or otherwise, he will be fighting all day.OR, Kurapika wakes up in an apartment he is becoming too acquainted with. Kuroro makes coffee.
Relationships: Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Kurapika
Comments: 16
Kudos: 123





	Sunlit Gardens

**Author's Note:**

> I’m cryptic as hell and have had terrible sleep lately, I woke up and my first thought was: misery is my lover. And it felt too KuroKura to pass up 🤣 I wrote this in bed on the first and I’ve been poking at it until its perfect. 
> 
> Thus, this can be read as either au or canon complaint I suppose. Prompt for seiyuna's Day 15 Kiss

Kurapika wakes to the sound of the door falling open. The ornate wood-carved pane yawning with an exasperated creak before knocking against a stack of books that had been set to buffer the wall from the crystal doorhandle.

He can hear the hum and hymn of the apartment coming to life, the whistle of a kettle, the gush of the heater, and the underscore of footsteps, calm and measured on the wooden floorboards. Kurapika counted the footfalls heel to toe until the retreating pair turn into the kitchen. The soft mumble of a one-sided conversation picking up down the hall.

Business call, probably.

Shalnark, most likely.

Kurapika groans, turning over in the bedsheets, suddenly too warm, and the stiff muscles in his lower back pull down the length of his leg. A memory from last night floats to the surface. Simmering in the sun.

It’s early morning from what he can make out of his cocoon of blankets. For such a cave-dweller, Kuroro’s apartment is annoyingly full of light with high-pane windows arched beautifully towards the ceiling. Kurapika blinks at the peaks of pale gold between gossamer and heavier drapery.

He can hear the faint hum of traffic from the street below.

The world beyond waking up to an ordinary fall morning, chilly with dew, hot coffee passing between frigid fingers, the stiffness of business suits and collars, people on the move and places to be. A Friday. Freedom on the horizon.

He peels himself slowly out of his cocoon and lets his eyes adjust as he sets himself up on the pillows, taking in the chaos that awaits him.

Kuroro’s bedroom is the central point of his flat, set between two smaller rooms off the main bathroom, kitchen, and living space. Originally, it was meant to be a study from what Kurapika can make of the floor to ceiling bookshelves built into the walls. Rosewood like the siding of the windows.

Two of the largest bookshelves bracket the bed like a headboard; the shelves stuffed full of rare manuscripts and folios, tattered paperbacks and spine-cracked hardcovers with all the dusty perfumes of old paper. Kurapika might have been able to reach up and take down any number of volumes that might interest him. Keep him in bed all day.

Then, there is the puzzling collection Kuroro used to decorate his shelves.

In the fingers of sunlight, he eyes the shiny facets of Kuroro’s trinket collection—glass figurines and cufflinks, loose gems and antique jewelry—all stolen, of course, spread across the width of the shelves between and atop books, spilling over the sides. Nestled down in the cream-colored sheets, housed more of Kuroro’s oddities: loose sheafs of music paper spilling across the bed, a half-finished book of hymns under the pillows, and an emerald ring hitting like an ice cube against his back.

Kuroro is, if anything, most basically, a magpie of a creature.

Any pretty, shiny thing that catches his whimsy eventually makes its way into this place.

Kurapika frowns at the thought and turns over again, back to pillows as he unearths the ring and sets it aside. Now more awake than he wants to be. He extends his body into a stretch, feeling the pleasant pull of muscles and a strange feeling of unease residing over him.

There is so much to do today, even for a Friday. Kurapika’s mind is already on his email—messages to reply to, calls to make, appointments to keep—but the warmth of the bed draws him back, makes him lull.

Idly, he retraces his steps from last night, though it hardly even matters. The hangover pulsing at one temple, his tie hanging off the bedframe, a soreness in his throat, it’s all the same. Any number of scenarios could have led him back here. Drinks served on ice, a wandering hand, Kuroro’s cherry-flavored tongue sliding against his own as he thumbed over the button of Kurapika’s dress shirt—

Kurapika presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, dragging in a deep breath and then letting it out.

It’s not as if he has not been here _before_ , in fact, this little song and dance has become something of a routine with him and Kuroro. A routine that Kurapika does not want to _think_ too much on. That has been his creed ever since he allowed this to happen.

Misery is his lover after all.

As if summoned, Kuroro appears in the doorway. His eyes are lid with satisfaction, the expression Kurapika has seen countless times as he makes off with one trophy or another, and sometimes even exclusively when he manages to lure Kurapika into his bed.

He is dressed for the morning, even partially, his hair damp and a pair of sleeping pants slung low on his hips. Kurapika worries that he should feel more unsettled his own nakedness than he is.

But this is normal. Kuroro approaches the bed, tusking.

“Well, you’ve got an awfully lofty expression for so early in the morning.” He is carrying two mugs of coffee, mismatched with logos from different cafés in different cities. Kuroro’s expression is smug. “Any reason for the furrow on your brow, my dear?”

Kurapika scowls at him. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Oh, yes,” Kuroro acquiesces, teeth peaking behind his lips as the corners tug back. His jaw is clean-shaven even now. “You are.”

It sets something of his teeth on edge, coils up the fight in his limbs and pulls his muscles taut. It’s _annoying,_ but not worth the fight. If Kurapika fought Kuroro every time he said something annoying, off-the-cuff or otherwise, he will be fighting all day.

Or, he can leave.

“Your poison.” Kuroro hands him one of the mugs, handle first, fingers balancing on the rim of the hot ceramic. Kurapika accepts it with a blithe _thank you_ and cups the mug in his palms while he sulks.

It’s the little things like this. The little dips and courtesies that make Kurapika puzzle and wonder if Kuroro is not trying to lull him into some false sense of security. Kuroro just tells him he has a horrible bedside manner and manners to match.

Uncaring for his turmoil, Kuroro circles the mattress to the other side, collecting the spilling music sheets with a free hand as he sips his own coffee. “We should start thinking breakfast.” He says as Kurapika presses his mouth to the lip of the cup. “There’s a new restaurant on the main drive, we should go.”

It’s more of a general statement than a pin-point plan.

Kurapika feels out the words for meanings, but as Kuroro sinks into the bed beside him, skimming the bars of music, Kurapika can feel himself pulling away.

He sets his mug on one of the lower shelves, pushing aside the chain of his earring from last night and hunkers down into the comforter, turning over to put Kuroro at his back.

The unease from before returns with abandon, cradling in his gut with all those other nasty feelings. He cannot handle Kuroro when he is playing carless and sweet. He cannot handle that sweetness because he does not know how.

There is a part of him, half-wild, half-sane, that wants to fuss, wants to shout, wants to make Kuroro look him in the eye and ask him _what are we what are we what is this?_ but the words often die on his tongue, unmade, unnamed when Kuroro gets too near. 

They have both hurt each other significantly, a pained, strained violence in their bones where no softness should lie, and yet, here they are. In bed, together on another day when the world outside is blustery and cool.

And he _needs_ this.

In that secret part of himself where he will never admit it aloud, he needs this.

There is a shift in the bed behind him, pulling against the sigh in his throat. Kuroro’s hand sliding under the sheets to fall against the dip of his shoulder, fingers dancing against the knob of bone and sinking into the warm space where his shoulder and neck meet, where he is coiled too tight.

Kuroro never withdraws, but seems to slide down his body until he has draped himself across Kurapika’s back, hands sliding along his ribcage and up to hook under his arms, pulling Kurapika flush against him from ankle to shoulder.

It feels so oddly reminiscent of last night—nails scraping, spine sparking—and Kurapika floods with heat as Kuroro tucks his face against his neck, lip grazing, nuzzling. His hand wandering low, down his sternum against the taut plane of his stomach.

“What do you think?” He mouths against the hot curve of his throat. His thigh nudging his.

Kurapika can feel the weight of him sinking against his back, pulling him back into that lull, that in-between of here and out there, and everything they are to each other. The cold tip of Kuroro’s nose slides into his hair.

“What?”

A thumb brushes against the dip of his navel. “Breakfast,” Kuroro prompts, brushing lower. “Shall we go to the usual place? Try something new?”

Oh, right. Breakfast.

Kurapika flushes, much to Kuroro’s delight, it seems. He plants a kiss on his nape. The gesture is surprisingly sweet, gentle even accompanied with the upward brush of Kuroro’s hand on his chest. “Let’s stay in.” He says, mind made up between one breath and the next, another kiss on the top of his spine, tension easing in his shoulder. “I want to stay in.”

“Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been thinking lately (among many other things) the subtle loving gestures like handing someone their coffee handle first.
> 
> Side note hc: Kurapika is a bit dicknotized here 😅 sorry. Also, the music sheets krkr sleep on was Mascagni - Intermezzo, from Cavalleria Rusticana all swelling emotion, passionate love and misfortune
> 
> I’m really hoping to finish up on my bigger krkr pieces soon (note: my krkr travel fic wants to play hard ball with my mind-map of a particular street in Hameln so Kuroro can wax poetically) so look out for those. But, if you’re new I have two other fics Pumpkin Spice 🎃 for autumnal fluff and It’s Just Forever 🗡 for angst and vampires. Go off!
> 
> I would love to know your thoughts, concerns, lines you liked in the comments below! 💕
> 
> -cafeanna


End file.
